


no wealth, no land, no silver, no gold

by orphan_account



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Cannibalism, Gore, King Geoff, Mad King Ryan, Other, geoff is a demigod of sorts, king AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-06
Updated: 2014-11-05
Packaged: 2018-02-24 07:48:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2573840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At last, the picking and slicing ceased. It was quiet for spell, and suddenly King Geoff became aware that the silence was not silence at all. The chemist, kneeled in front of his body on the stained field, breathed heavily. It was laughter now, shaking of broad shoulders and hoarse wheezing. The man reached in (gloveless) and produced from the open cavity he had created the former king’s heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	no wealth, no land, no silver, no gold

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thaumometer (unculturedegg)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/unculturedegg/gifts).



> basically, takes place immediately after the end of king geoff pt 2. the final challenge is, of course, to defeat the king in combat.
> 
> the new king takes a trophy of his predecessor. 
> 
> inspired in part by [this artwork](http://mallius.tumblr.com/post/76648715277/to-become-a-god-you-must-devour-ones-heart-how) (by mallius on tumblr)

There was a tactic that he had been taught once, persistence hunting, wherein the predator would wear down its prey before taking its kill. The premise is simple: once the predator has tricked the prey into running around, tiring itself out, exhausting all its options, the prey gives up. It becomes an easy target.

He was aware that he had lost even before he had started running.

He watched from above now, wading in souls and in the muck that consisted of the elsewhere between what any mortal would say here and there. His mortality, his body, sat against the grass now, slumped over and still twitching, bloomed red. It (and it really just was an it without him) looked pathetic now, showing its age in the wrinkles that were not hardset in a look of pensieve apathy.

The king's successor brushed himself off. The allfather watched him as he produced from somewhere on his person a polished and sharpened blade designed exactly for what he had planned and had executed across the dirt and grass. He rose, pushed against a particularly overexerted fleck of hair across his brow, then decided against something evident on his face and kneeled beside the vessel of the former king.

It was not the shine of the dagger that had moved him, but the mutilation of the chest cavity. He had crafted the suit below him, the human body, himself. All of it was loving, every black hair and every crooked grin he had ever put across it. He was not quite saddened by it, but he had become attached to it, and he respected the emotion he felt coarse through him as the chemist, the alchemist, the combatant that had bested him, began to slip the clothing and skin from his chest. The ribs came next, and the maker winced with each snap and crack of the fragile bones.

"I apologize, my good king," the chemist said, the left side of his mouth twitching only slightly. Never had King Geoff ever thought a shortened muscle to be evil, but he ventured a guess that everything looked evil in light of events such as this.

The dagger, stained red now, cut easily through muscle and vein. Surely, Geoff thought, it was bewitched. Nothing else could cut through so easily. (He had done it enough times, much to his own chagrin, to recognize that cutting through even muscle mass thinner than his took effort.)

At last, the picking and slicing ceased. It was quiet for spell, and suddenly King Geoff became aware that the silence was not silence at all. The chemist, kneeled in front of his body on the stained field, breathed heavily. It was laughter now, shaking of broad shoulders and hoarse wheezing. The man reached in (gloveless) and produced from the open cavity he had created the former king’s heart. It no longer maintained the body’s pulse, and as a result it was a bloody but sickly pink.

Initially, the creator was wary, unsure of the path that the new king was taking by procuring his vessel’s heart. It was of no use to anyone who lacked the ability to reanimate, and while he did not doubt the power of this previously undetected man, he was certain he didn’t. His heart possessed no unearthly powers, and there was no elixer or brew he could call to memory that would benefit particularly from a heart over other organs or blood. The connection that registered in his mind happened only after the man had sunk his teeth into the organ, producing a thick smearing across his previously unmarked face. He devoured it all, rather savagely and in a somewhat savage gesture, unlike the meticulous mannerism he had taken on to cut the heart from its place. As he chewed and swallowed, he turned to the field behind him, handkerchief from his pocket wiping blood from both his face and his hands. With a flick of his wrist, the successor cleared up his mess. It was though the mutilation had never even occured. Not even a nick remained on the fallen king’s body.

Up staggered one, then another body, then more after those. Those valiant enough to fight for the throne and defend the crown in the same gesture joined the alchemist in the clearing. First came the knight, who came to rest at the right hand of the king’s body even after his demise. He cupped said hand in his own two, armor shifting as he held it. Perhaps he was clutching for some sign of warmth, some inkling that perhaps the king would cling to life. He found nothing.

After him came the rager, who had stood closest to the kingship behind its current successor. He clutched his side, wound gushing blood over his fingers. The allfather knew he had suffered worse. He wobbled a while, standing despite the aching in his side, but eventually collapsed on himself and began ripping up his own clothing in an attempt to stop the bleeding.

Then, much to his chagrin, the gold boots trod across the grass, each flick driving a stake through the maker. The fool had already begun to celebrate, clumsy fingers waving his sword in a greeting. The loopy grin on his face dropped immediately after he caught the eye of the knight and the sight of his bloody king. The sword fell from his fingers, and his knees hit the dirt not long after. He was the first to begin crying.

Lastly came the masked crusader, a feeble-looking young thing with a quizzical look in his eye even now. He had lagged behind the others, though not as far as the fool had, and throughout the displays presented to him, it was clear to King Geoff that the young man had no intentions of fighting him potentially to the death, though he would gladly comb over every detail of the competition. Even now his eyes glazed across the chemist’s body, picking out details to piece the full picture together.

“Gentlemen,” the alchemist said, voice strong and commanding, a stark contrast to the fluctuating tone of his predecessor. “You have fought well today. Your bravery and honor in the competition for the crown will not go unseen.” He stooped then, turning on his heel, and collected the crown from atop the head of the body formerly harnessing the king. “If you all should fancy it, we may leave this place.”

Silence. A wind passed them, whipping hair softly and creating a howling across the plain.

“Long live King Ryan.” The knight’s voice was thick. He fizzled on the last syllable. The others crowded around the body echoed the sentiment. One by one they followed the new king, whose coattails whipped in the breeze quite merrily, until only the knight remained. He kissed the tips of the body’s fingers before his departure, and then the allfather was alone.

 


End file.
